June 2016

May 31, 2007

We like depictions of Jesus. We especially like depictions of Mean Jesus. You know, the Jesus who bitch-slapped the money-changers at the Temple. Fisticuffs Jesus isn't as popular as Sheep Jesus, but that's because he tended to reserve his beatdowns for deserving bitches, like money-changers and underlings who brought him the wrong brand of bottled water. The Bible does not say how many deserving bitches were awarded the Jesus Beat Down, but we'll bet you it was plenty. Jesus could see right through a man, right down to his inner deserving bitch. When he did he said, "Get ready, fool", and proceeded to render unto that fool a New Testament whupping.

Party at Bob Seger's house. A wildfire in the canyon. Michael McDonald in the hot tub saying, "I read the whole of Proust in the hot tub. It's easy. All you need is a copy of Proust and a hot tub." A coyote trots past. For three days we've been tossing raw hot dogs into the pool, and the wildfire in the canyon has been burning, and if it weren't for all the heroin, the cocaine might become a problem. Three days, and we've only seen Bob once. Standing waist deep in the pool, surrounded by bobbing hot dogs, the hem of his garment (a silk kimono, red) floating around him like Ophelia's hair. His arms lifted biblically into the air. "Bob!" we shout. Bob says, "It's not so much that I'm against the wind as I am against it's suddenly shifting direction." He looks around, fishes a hot dog from the water, takes a bite. The stereo's playing Steely Dan, "Black Cow."

There is a lot we will never know but it doesn't matter now, sunk as we are in the muddy sediment at the bottom of the ocean of the high life.

Bob says, "One of the few braves killed by Custer's people at the Little Bighorn was named Rectum. That's Truth, people. And I'll give $10,000 to anybody who can name another."

Another coyote trots past. Rupert Holmes, or so we've been told, lives next door.

The excitement and romance of Italy are hardly to be tolerated. Our first day in Venice, and already a dark little man with a headful of intricate ringlets has leapt from a gondola and plunged a long dagger into our breast, to the hilt. We tussled, spurting dark arterial blood, while some Japanese tourists took photos that should turn out nicely, what with the Bridge of Sighs in the background, until finally the dark little man with the ringlets fell into the canal. You should have heard him, swearing like a miniature Fabio.

Here in the hospital, somebody keeps pushing burning gondolas past our window, with an effigy of us in the back, burning too. The thing the Baedeker fails to tell you about Italy, Mother, is the sheer number of people who listen to smooth jazz all day long, yet are not ashamed. You would like it here. Our nurse is a hairy nun with one human foot and one hoof. Her malevolence is hardly to be credited. Doubtlessly, her parents took one look at that hoof and said, "This one's marrying Jesus!" Whenever a burning gondola goes past the window she points to the burning effigy in the back, then points to us, and says something in Italian that sounds like "Burn baby burn, disco inferno."

Mother, we are sending the dagger, which is nicely ornamented, home as a souvenir of our trip. You might want to hang it above the fireplace. The doctor who removed it informs us we are sure to die because he is incompetent. He says this with a cheerful shrug, as if to say "What are you going to do?" You would never find such refreshing honesty in an American doctor, that's for sure.

As we write this, another gondola floats past our window. This one is not burning. You are sitting in it, and the dark little man with the impressive ringlets stands behind you, rowing. He wields the long oar with impressive authority, this little Fabio, and appears to be serenading you with song, yes you Mother, who warned us from the time that we were a small child that we would be killed by a dark little man with impressive ringlets, which look so like our impressive ringlets that he could almost be our father, this murderous Fabio, who has now reached out to take your hand, his mouth open and emitting opera, as the gondola bears you both away to some dark and infinite palazzo.